32: Amiable Meetings
"Your friend has found himself in some trouble, I think." Warden Alcott had been standing at the window of his office, looking out upon the grassy prison grounds, now cast under the shadow of night. He stood with his back to Broadway as he walked in, the man's black SSTRD uniform immaculately pressed with nary a crease in sight. Broadway's own, on the other hand, was a little crinkled from a scuffle he had just broken up in the cafeteria of the maximum-security block. It had been simple enough to get the prisoners to scatter, as his sheer presence was often plenty to end any fight. Despite his feelings about his situation here, he found there to be some enjoyment to be gained from putting the scumbags in their places.
"Who do you mean?" Broadway frowned, unsure as to why the Warden had called him up to his office. He stopped before the man's desk, sensing the encroaching dawn. He had maybe half an hour before the sun was up, and from appearances Alcott was an early riser.
"The other one from your clan," Alcott said, and he turned around to face Broadway. "The red one. Brooklyn, I believe his name is?"
"Trouble?" Broadway was immediately alert, feeling a stab of worry for his rookery brother. Alcott did not appear too concerned, he simply gave a light shrug.
"He's been suspended, investigation pending," the Warden replied. "I haven't got all the details. Looks like the FBI and the NEAB have moved in and taken over the whole thing. I just thought you might like to know, as a courtesy."
Broadway did not entirely trust Warden Alcott. However, the man had been amicable since he had started working here, even if he lacked tact when it came to voicing his own opinions on some matters. Him letting Broadway know of this recent development at least showed that he cared for the wellbeing of those under his command to an extent.
"I'll keep you posted with what I hear," Alcott continued. "If you need any time off, let me know a few days in advance. That way I know how many guards I'll need to put in the max-security block, since you essentially amount to four of my human guards."
"You don't know why he's been suspended?"
"No, not at all. There was some trouble he was involved with up in Vermont, apparently, but again I wouldn't know for sure. I hear things, rumours on the grapevine, but I seldom get anything concrete to go on. The NEAB certainly isn't going to inform me of something I don't need to know." He paused then, the dark of the night sky through the window at his back. His black uniform complemented it well. "I know you don't necessarily agree with what the NEAB does…"
"That's an understatement."
"And I understand your issues, I do. So, your friend could easily be in more trouble for the simple fact he's a gargoyle, which some would rightly say is discrimination, but unfortunately the people who distrust your kind greatly outnumber those who know you well enough to see you for what you really are. Mind you, this is coming from a man who was there on the frontlines during Devil's Night."
Broadway had heard mention of this in passing before. Alcott picked up a glass of water from his desk, taking a hearty gulp from it. Despite the early hour, he appeared awake and alert. As Warden here, he was likely on call twenty-four hours a day.
"I was in Los Angeles, helping train American soldiers. I was still in the SAS back then, you see." He put the glass down, meeting Broadway's eyes with a firm glance. "Not the nicest place I've been, Los Angeles. Much the same as New York: overcrowded and crime-ridden, hardly my ideal tourist spot but a job is a job, the location is just something you need to get used to."
Broadway had a feeling where this story was going. According to some of the other guards, the Warden had plenty of stories to tell, most from his years in the British SAS. It seemed odd that an Englishman would be here, in New York state running a maximum-security prison with a 'dungeon' for criminal gargoyles. The Warden himself would be the first to tell you of how unusual this might strike most people, even if it had simply been a series of events outside of his direct control that had landed him this role.
"It started at half past nine, at least for me," Alcott said. Broadway could see in his eyes that the man was playing it out in his mind's eye, the intense look to his usually relaxed blue eyes suggesting that the memories were far from pleasant. "Emergency services were inundated with panicked calls, people screaming about monsters outside their homes. Power went out in some areas, something that was later attributed to sabotage. Gargoyles of some previously unseen variety were literally going door-to-door in certain neighbourhoods, areas that they had apparently chosen at random. They were butchering people in their homes, Broadway. I know you know this, but it cannot be understated. Entire families slaughtered, all while the police and the paramedics were stretched beyond any reasonable limit. They could not answer all these calls, and in a matter of hours panic had gripped the city. Riots erupted, and I was caught in it all."
Broadway had been in New York City when it had happened. It had been much the same, a clearly engineered attack over the course of a single night that had resulted in serious and lasting consequences.
"I was on leave at the time, enjoying the city nightlife as best I could before it all started. Suddenly, I was contacted by my superiors, told to meet some Federal type at the British Ambassador's house. Turns out his daughter had been abducted during all of this, and I was assigned to find her. That meant going into one of the hardest hit neighbourhoods, where police had engaged rioters, some of whom were armed. Not to mention the gargoyles, some of whom had already been hunted down and killed by this point. I went in and I pulled out the girl, but not before I lost a close friend and was forced to take several lives doing so." Alcott sounded positively dour as he recalled all this, which was understandable. He had walked into an urban warzone and lived to tell the tale. Broadway's experience had not been much different, and he had done what he could to save as many lives as possible. However, he had not been able to save everyone. Sometimes he saw those he had failed to save, often in his dreams whilst he slept in stone. If the passage of time brought anything beyond increased age, it was painful memories. They piled on over the years, rearing their ugly heads when one least wanted them to.
"I don't much like talking about it," Alcott said. "Not so much because it's an unpleasant memory, more so because it's just such a depressing topic. So, I apologise if I'm making you feel a little down-and-out, Broadway. It's just good to speak about these things."
"That's fine, Warden."
"I take it much the same happened in Manhattan for you?"
Broadway nodded his head. Despite the nearing dawn, he found himself speaking of the experience to the Warden, perhaps the only other person he had told about it outside of his clan. As the Warden had said, it was sometimes good to speak about such matters to others, and Broadway found that this occasion was no different.
Demona, otherwise known as 'Dominque Destine' during the daylight hours, found the man sitting before her to be irritating at best, insufferable at worst. It was well past dawn, which put her in her long-haired and slim human body. She was seated in the plain white room that served as her visitor's area, with a single closed door to her left that went straight back into her cell. She could not even open it herself, rather the guards on the outside had to do that for her. What irked her the most about her incarceration was how much of her independence had been taken from her. She had a room, an even smaller visitor's partition here and a small stretch of corridor for exercise; that was her world, had been for close to seven years. The thought of spending a century in here was worrisome, as she was likely to lose her mind well before then. The sterile white walls did not help her case much, broken up only by the odd section of thick, grey aluminium.
Through the thick plexiglass window before her was seated a chubby man in a grey suit jacket. He appeared sweaty and Demona watched as he blew his nose, loudly, into a tissue. The small holes set into the glass allowed his scent to waft on through. Even with her current human nose, Demona could smell the unpleasant stench of the man's body odour. All in all, he looked ill. It was likely the flu, Demona had picked up enough medical knowledge over the years to have become fairly good at diagnosing such conditions.
"Sorry, Miss Destine." The man stuffed the sodden tissue into a pocket in his jacket, an action that only made Demona briefly contort her face with a look of disgust. "I'm coming down with something. Head-cold."
James Harris was her current attorney, having come from a prestigious firm paid for with the ample fortune that 'Dominique Destine' had amassed through 'legitimate' means. He was a middle-aged man with some weight around the belly and a balding head of thin black hair.
"Any news on my case?" It was a pointless question to ask, she knew this. Her case was closed, her fate sealed. Lifetime imprisonment, which for her would essentially mean eternity. Evidently, the authorities wanted to keep her locked away for as long as possible, at least until someone higher-up was able to get the death penalty back in place for her, and that was providing that figured out a way to actually 'kill' her. That matter had gone to a federal level and had so far been tied up in bureaucracy and debate. Another possibility was that her case simply was not important enough to devote much time to anyway. She was but one gargoyle in a large nation, a nation with a government that had much bigger fish to fry.
"We've petitioned the NEAB and the Federal court to allow you increased exercise time and a larger cell. Specifically, to allow you more use of your wings during the night hours."
"Oh, how quaint." Demona rolled her eyes. Harris sniffed, snorting up a sizeable portion of snot. A disgusting human action, in Demona's view.
"I've also obtained the books you requested," Harris added. "It'll be a couple of days while the prison staff look over them, but you should get them soon enough."
"Well, there's one positive, I suppose."
"There was another thing," Harris said, and he put a manila folder across the benchtop in front of him. "Some journalist is trying to organize an interview with you. A live exclusive. Corey Masters, you might have seen him on television?"
"Not in here," Demona replied, eyes narrowing.
"Yes, well, okay." Harris appeared uncomfortable then, and he took a moment to regain his train of thought. "If he does manage to get it by the Warden and the NEAB, will you consent to it? I mean, I wouldn't recommend doing so. Masters is known for his sensationalized journalism…"
"Of course I would consent to it," Demona interrupted, smiling wide. Even in her human form, the smile carried a distinct edge of maliciousness that even Harris noticed. The look made him feel him even more uncomfortable.
"I was going to say, you may not want to as anything you say will likely be used against you. Of course, the final decision rests with you. It might not even happen, Masters may not get his way."
"I certainly hope he does." Demona kept her smile, thinking of all that such an opportunity might bring with it. Being on television was certainly appealing. At least she would have a means to speak for herself, instead of relying on some inept lawyer to do so for her.
"Thank you for seeing to those books, Mister Harris," Demona said. The man nodded, although his unease was readily apparent. "They ought to help the centuries fly by in this place."
"You want me to help you in a case we're not even allowed to investigate?"
"That's about right." Griggs stood over Ferretti's workstation, cast in the sunlight that filtered in through the arch-shaped windows off to his right. It was morning in the precinct, yet Griggs was tired. He had not slept much last night, his mind sifting through the various possibilities as for what may lie ahead of him on the road he had chosen to take. That is, it was the most ill-advised path, yet it was also the one likely to bear some real answers.
"Look, I've got a lot on my plate," Ferretti said. He leaned back in his chair, munching on a strawberry-iced doughnut. Some crumbs had fallen across his yellow-tinted business shirt, an article that now bore some noticeable sweat stains. The workday had barely started and already the Detective was working up a sweat. Around them, Detectives and uniformed officers moved about on their own business, the usual hustle-and-bustle of the organized crime bureau ensuring that the pair's conversation went mostly unnoticed.
"I can see that," Griggs remarked, his voice dry. "You have doughnuts for breakfast every day?"
"Hey, I need energy to do my job. It takes a lot out of you." He finished off the doughnut before he wiped off his fingers on a napkin set upon the desk, just by his right hand.
"Not enough, from what I can see."
"You come here asking for help and you're being a smartass?" Ferretti sighed. "I have a full plate, seriously. Cases are stacking up, this city's full of crooks, you know that. You've been in this game longer than I have."
"But this case, the one Sophie and Brooklyn got taken off of, it's a big one."
"Oh yeah? You really buy into that Illuminati crap?" Ferretti pulled open a drawer at his desk then, and from inside he pulled out a can of cola. Griggs cocked one brow slightly, finding the man's capacity for snacking truly something to behold.
"I know they hit something big."
"Something dangerous, more like."
"This job's always dangerous," Griggs countered. "Since when were you one to shy away from danger?"
That did it. Ferretti paused, having been about to crack open the can with the ring-pull. Any kind of hint at cowardice and Ferretti was likely to hit you, or at the very least let his true feelings about the one making the hint well-heard.
"Shit, 'danger' just so happens to be my middle-name," Ferretti said suddenly, his mouth forming into a grin. "I mean, I can help you, if you're serious about this. That said, Sophie and Brooklyn made their own bed and for all I care they can lie in it. They went off half-cocked and reaped the consequences."
"Look, if we bust this open, think of the story we'll have to tell." Griggs leaned forwards then, bringing his face a little closer to Ferretti. Perhaps closer than he would have usually preferred, but all the better to make his point. "Secret society or not, something's going on. People died out there in Vermont, hired guns mostly. Someone went and took away all the bodies to cover it up. And they go ahead and close the case on us, handing it off to the Feds. You know what that looks like to me, Ferretti?"
"It's the 'c-word', isn't it?"
"Yeah. It's a conspiracy. We just got caught up in it. Now, if we were to blow a conspiracy wide open, one that looks like it goes all the way up to the NEAB and the FBI at the very least…"
"We'll be heroes," Ferretti finished, eyes lighting up noticeably. He was no doubt thinking over the prospects such an occurrence could bring, mainly those prospects for fame and fortune. He already had a liking for the spotlight, with his bestselling memoirs. For Ferretti to bring down a conspiracy, well, that was a lot bigger than taking down a mob boss.
"Or we'll be dead," Ferretti quickly added, his face suddenly turning serious. "I'd never think you'd be one for going against the book, Tom."
"How can we go by the book when the people behind this shit don't even have that book in their library?"
"A good point, Tom. A very good point." Ferretti nodded his head. Griggs could almost see the wheels in his mind turning quickly, working in overdrive as he put together the various pieces of information he had on this case. "All right, I'll give you a little help where I can."
"I need some traffic camera footage, for one," Griggs said. "From the night of the break-in. It looks like the Feds blocked any attempt to get hold of it. I was going to go down to traffic control and see what I could find."
"You don't need my help for that."
"But I do need you to look into a few other things." Griggs reached into his shirt pocket, retrieving a small, folded note. "That felon who got gunned down before the break-in, the one dressed as a cop? I need you to find out everything you can about him. That includes his last contacts."
"You think that will help?" Ferretti took the note, taking a quick glance at it. He frowned at some of what he saw written there. "And Veccio as well, huh?"
"We need to find him."
"He wasn't very cooperative last time we had him in here."
"So, we'll find him and make him more cooperative." Griggs gave a shrug. "He's got to have left some trace of his whereabouts somewhere. You do your end, I'll do mine."
"All right, all right." Ferretti tucked the note into his sweat-soaked shirt. "I'll do what I can, but like I said it can't be my focus. I've got other cases."
"That's all good. I'm just asking for a little. And if this case blows open, then I'll be sure to mention you when the press reporters come by. Sound good?"
Ferretti nodded his head, his previous smile returning.
"Sounds great, Tom. Sounds great."